CHAPTER 484: IS HE DREAMING OR HAS SOMETHING LIKE THIS HAPPENED BEFORE

"Mr. Luther"

The brown-haired man from Country E stared at Sinclair in terror, his voice trembling as he spoke.

"We’ve told you everything we know.

Please... show us mercy."

The other man nodded frantically, his pallid face etched with desperation.

"That’s right, Mr. Luther.

We beg you... keep your word and let us go."

The moment Sinclair lifted his gaze, the air seemed to freeze.

His slender fingers, pale as jade against the dark onyx of his ring, rested motionless.

The two men held their breath, not daring to utter another word, awaiting their fate.

The man’s thin lips curved slowly as he uttered two words.

"Of course."

Sinclair turned his head slightly, his cold eyes settling on Ramsey.

"Understood."

Ramsey gave a slight nod before turning to the mercenaries behind him.

"Take them away."

The mercenary nodded and stepped forward to haul the two men up from the ground before leading them away.

Relief washed over their faces, the kind only survivors of a near-death experience could understand.

They didn’t dare glance back at their mutilated companion still writhing in agony as they were escorted out of the warehouse.

Silence swallowed the vast space once more.

Sinclair’s gaze was empty, devoid of warmth, as he stared at the bloodied, handless man before him.

Ramsey watched his boss, unable to suppress the questions bubbling inside him.

Ramsey opened his mouth to speak—then hesitated.

Ramsey knew better than to question Sinclair’s decisions.

Without even looking at him, Sinclair seemed to read his mind.

His voice was calm and detached.

"You want to know why I let them go."

Ramsey stiffened slightly before nodding.

"Yes."

Sinclair’s dark eyes narrowed.

Instead of answering directly, he countered with deliberate slowness.

"If you were Harrison... what would you do?"

His tone was flat, yet it carried an inexplicable chill.

Harrison.

Ramsey pondered for a moment before instantly grasping his boss’s intent.

Even if President Luther let them go, those three wouldn’t survive.

"Understood."

Sinclair remained silent, his noble features cold and detached.

"Shit!"

This man was truly ruthless and cunning!

Even the bloodied, battered bald man caught on, the venom in his eyes dimming slightly.

Still.

The thought that those who had betrayed him would meet the same fate brought him a twisted sense of satisfaction.

"President Luther," Ramsey frowned, recalling the words of the two men earlier.

"That Thomas guy—"

"Track him down."

Sinclair’s dark eyes gleamed as his long fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, slow and deliberate.

"You go personally."

For insignificant people, there was no need for elaborate schemes.

Was President Luther planning to take the initiative and strike directly?!

Ramsey’s eyes flickered with understanding.

"Understood!"

Sinclair checked the time, then leisurely rose from his seat, his long legs unfolding with deliberate grace.

"Before Camilla wakes up, ensure there’s not a single disturbance inside or outside the hotel."

"Yes, sir!"

Ramsey nodded solemnly, fully grasping his boss’s intent.

Without another word, Sinclair strode out.

His tall silhouette, cast in the dim glow of the lights, exuded an icy, oppressive aura—utterly devoid of warmth.

Ramsey didn’t follow.

Instead, he immediately contacted his team, tightening security around the hotel tenfold.

Only after settling into the car did it dawn on him— President Luther had managed to restrain the bloodthirsty impulses in his veins!!

Whether it was dealing with the Mega family before or now...

This was incredible!!

A wave of relief washed over Ramsey, and he exhaled deeply.

Grandpa truly had foresight—

Madam really was President Luther’s one and only cure!!

"Ding—"

Instead of returning to his room immediately, Sinclair first headed to the luxurious suite on the sub-penthouse floor.

Sinclair stepped inside, roughly loosening his collar as if the fabric were suffocating him.

Without hesitation, he strode into the bathroom and sank into the bathtub already filled with water.

His mind involuntarily replayed the blood-soaked scenes—including the warehouse from earlier—each frame igniting a restless fire in his veins.

Sinclair had to regain control.

No matter what, he had to.

Sinclair pressed his lips into a thin line, his aristocratic features hardening into an icy mask.

Then, he shut his eyes and let himself submerge completely beneath the water’s surface.

The cold seeped into his bones, dulling the violent storm raging inside him.

Camilla was pregnant now.

Sinclair couldn’t afford to lose control again. Sinclair couldn’t let her worry.

Couldn’t burden her.

So, by any means necessary, he had to keep himself in check.

The moment his body sank deeper into the water, a sudden stiffness seized him—and then, everything dissolved into chaos.

When consciousness returned, he found himself—or rather, his disembodied perspective—inside the luther Corporation headquarters.

Ramsey rushed in, visibly tense, delivering the news to the other "him": Camilla was missing.

Sinclair watched as that version of himself, frantic with worry, mobilized every resource the Luther Family had to search for her.

But the only lead they uncovered was worse—Camilla had been kidnapped.

Even in this dreamlike state, Sinclair could feel the suffocating panic clawing at his chest.

The other him went berserk, calling in every favor, turning the entire capital upside down until they finally found her.

There she lay, that vibrant soul now motionless on the ground, drenched in blood.

No heartbeat.

No breath.

Like a flower abruptly withered, its brilliance still vivid yet its life already extinguished.

Sinclair tried to step forward, but his limbs refused to obey.

His heart felt as though an invisible hand had seized it, crushing it piece by piece until the pain stole his breath.

His very soul seemed to die alongside her, the world around him fading into a hollow, silent void.

And the other him in his vision was no different.

Pale as death, he cradled Camilla’s lifeless body, kneeling frozen on the ground—a statue carved from grief.

How could this be?

Why is this happening?

Sinclair’s fingers clenched involuntarily, the pain in his chest and the suffocating weight pressing down on him until it felt like his entire being might shatter.

*Splash—*

With the sudden, startling sound of water, he jolted upright in the bathtub.

His dark eyes were stormy, his godlike features veiled in an unsettling frost.

The scenes he had just witnessed flashed through his mind again.

The dull ache in his chest didn’t fade—instead, it grew sharper, more relentless.

This was the second time.

The first time these images had surfaced was in Mileage.

And then, he had lost a stretch of his memories.

How could this be?

Could there really be parallel worlds or past lives?

Sinclair narrowed his eyes, his striking face shadowed by something indistinct, something haunting.

Sinclair wasn’t a superstitious man, but these two dreams—so vivid, so immersive—left him questioning everything.

Sinclair checked the time and rose to step into the shower.

The warm water gradually eased the chill from his body, yet his dark, inscrutable eyes only grew colder.

Only after ensuring no trace of blood or smoke lingered on him did he wrap himself in a bathrobe and return to the presidential suite.

His icy, penetrating gaze softened the moment it fell upon the figure curled up on the bed.

Moving silently, he approached the bedside.